


Finding the Vein of Silver

by Kawaiibooker



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Beware the spoilers, Cadash-Centric, Dreams and Nightmares, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Eventual Male Cadash/Dorian Pavus, Gen, POV Inquisitor, The Fade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 00:30:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4685387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kawaiibooker/pseuds/Kawaiibooker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Ragnar Cadash wanted was to live his Carta life in peace. What he got instead was a Mark of Doom, nightmares and a miss-matched group of friends.</p><p>Sort of a character study. Follows the plot, if not necessarily the pacing of the game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read by candeloro and snowquill.

Consciousness comes to him gradually, like a stone being washed ashore by the never-ending waves of the ocean. One moment he is surrounded by darkness, void of sound or color; the next, there are voices, muted and far away. He feels a presence near him, beckoning him, calling him by a name he hasn’t used in decades, maybe longer. It feels... friendly, welcoming – a promise of peace and comfort, if only he comes closer to the source.

Tentatively, he makes to follow that presence. In this endless void it’s the only point of orientation he has but it seems impossibly far away. The voices rise around him, pressing in from all sides. The blurry outlines of shapes, grey and shadowlike, appear out of thin air and block his path. “They said I have to follow. Let me through“, he says, to no avail; his voice is soundless, powerless. The taste of blood blooms on his tongue, a sharp pain making itself known to his left. He notices: He has a body.

“I have to—“ _follow it_ , but he can’t finish the sentence. His newly-acquired body shakes with an ache he can’t describe. _Something is wrong_ , he thinks, means to say, but his voice stutters and dies. The noise is deafening now, suffocating every other sensation, even the presence guiding him. He feels panic, his heartbeat like a war drum in his ears – _fight_ , something in him screams, _fight or you will die_ —

“Wake up!“, the presence commands – and he obeys.

 *

 Ragnar Cadash regains consciousness with a start. He feels pain, head aching, his chest pounding, his body wrong wrong _wrong_ — “Breathe!“, a voice commands, a hard slap following and making him gasp. Ragnar’s eyes snap open and he blinks his vision into focus, all the while sucking in air he didn’t realize he needed.

There’s a woman in full armor in front of him, regarding him with a piercing look. The moment he lifts his head and straightens his posture with a groan – he’s bound to a chair, he notes dully – she pounces on him, asking question after question he can’t comprehend or answer. Ragnar stays silent, grinding his teeth together to stop a noise of pain when she slaps him again. _Four guards and another woman, all human_ , his brain supplies after a quick check of his surroundings. _One sword, possible knives under the cloak – one door._ Impossible odds for him, regardless of being bound and weaponless.

“Answer me, dwarf“, the seething warrior hisses at him. He opens his mouth to ask what her fucking problem is, ignoring her questions, when sheer agony rips through his left arm. He can’t quite hold back the moan this time, green light flashing in his face, making his head swim. Hushed whispers erupt around him, reminding him of the place of darkness he came from, then – a sudden silence. The second woman steps closer to him.

“Tell me everything you remember.“

*

He can’t recall much of what happened between the first woman, Cassandra, reluctantly freeing him and the trek to that thing in the sky – the Breach, or whatever they call it. He’s entirely miserable the whole way, feeling sick while his left hand pounds to an own heartbeat. They say the Mark is the result of him walking physically in the Fade – him, a stone-forsaken dwarf of all people! –, a feat he can’t even think about without feeling a healthy dose of panic bubble up. Ragnar simply grips his broadsword tighter and soldiers on.

 _They_ , of course, are the rag-tag group of survivors following Cassandra around like a bad joke _. Two dwarves, an elf and a human walk into the end of the world_ , Ragnar thinks gloomily, trudging behind the fellow warrior up the mountain and into the desolation left behind by the explosion he supposedly walked out of. He fights off the demons coming for them, falling into his typical routine of shielding the more vulnerable parts of the group without a second thought. He turns around to check if Yevez is alright after a particularly gruesome encounter, only to see the elf – Solas, he reminds himself – in his place with his head cocked to the side and a thoughtful look in his face. Ragnar swallows his grief, _they’re all dead, every single one of them_ , and forcibly turns around again, suddenly wishing the demons had kept coming to give him something to do with his hands.

Closing the Breach is another matter in itself. The power he feels shifting uncomfortably under his skin is easier to wield than he had thought possible. It saps at his strong body like a leech, releasing that unnatural green light and visibly mending the hole in the sky. Ragnar’s vision turns fuzzy at the edges,gasping through the mounting pain the Mark brings the longer he uses it.

He welcomes the darkness this time.

*

Life in Haven is hard to adjust to for the former Carta-dwarf. Eyes follow him everywhere he goes, the whispers about the “Herald of Andraste“ close behind. He fights hard to keep his face as neutral and passive as possible, facing down talk after talk about his involvement in the Conclave and its destruction. He has nothing new to tell them, really; he won‘t say why he was there in the first place, and everything during or after the explosion is but a blur in his memory.

At least the Inner Circle, as he starts calling them, seem to be convinced of his innocence, if only because they mistake him for some Andrastian messenger. They ask for his opinion on subjects he doesn‘t have the faintest clue of, just because of some mark on his hand and the questionable testimony of both himself and some poor sods who had the bad luck to witness the whole thing. It rubs him the wrong way, to be valued for that piece of displaced magic when nobody would’ve given a nugs ass about some Carta-dwarf before. Ragnar says as much to Varric one night, the only one he‘s willing to talk to voluntarily; the other dwarf pats his back in an almost paternal way and then shares the rest of his beer to cheer him up.

As coincidence has it, they know each other from earlier dealings in the Free Marches, even if it was close to a decade ago and only a fleeting acquaintance at best. The fact that Ragnar hadn’t noticed it earlier was uncharacteristic for him, since gathering information and connections was the fundament of Carta work. Waking up to the very imminent apocalypse does have its drawbacks, it seems. As it was, their similar background – both of them being “shifty-smuggler types“ as Varric put it – and some shared interests make them fast friends. Ragnar likes to listen to his stories and even shares some of his own, when prompted – a privilege the other dwarf seems to take in stride with a knowing glint in his eyes and a smile on his lips.

The blighted _thing_ in his hand still feels strange on his skin, thankfully less painful since the Breach has been temporarily sealed, but still uncomfortably _there_ in the back of his mind at all times. He develops the nervous habit of wringing his left hand when he‘s anxious about something, which happens more often than he likes to admit. He stops the very moment Solas notices, though. “It should not hurt anymore“, the mage says with a frown on his ethereal face, which Ragnar shrugs off with an offhand comment about “magic never doing what it should, anyways“. The frown only deepens in disagreement, but the elf drops the subject. Most of their encounters go along these lines: Talking about magic makes Ragnar uncomfortable, which in turn puts him in a snarky and defensive mood. Undeterred, Solas would prompt philosophical discussions the dwarf has neither the knowledge nor the interest to think in depth about. It always ends in frustration for him and disappointment for the elf.

Cassandra, on the other hand, prefers to corner him the moment he seems reluctant to reveal anything. They had their fair share of arguments in the short time they’ve known each other, although it never came to more than verbal blows between them. In a way, her honest and direct approach to everything she does makes it easier for the dwarf to gauge her character and thus he finds himself trusting the warrior rather quickly. Both parties agree to overlook the mutual negative first impression and move on – there are more important things to do, after all.

*

The mission to retrieve Mother Giselle from the Hinterlands comes as a relief. It gives Ragnar a goal to focus on while providing a change of scenery his restless body and mind desperately need. Travelling to the location is strangely enjoyable despite the brisk pace and the lingering silence between the members of the group. Only Varric makes an effort to break it after a while – a few well-placed jabs at Cassandra do the trick of providing banter to pass the time.

Ragnar’s silence is not born out of callousness, but of utter distraction the view the Frostbacks present him with. As a lad he had developed an interest bordering on obsession to everything traditionally dwarven, be it culture, religion or craftsmanship; much to the chagrin of the remaining Cadash family, who had to listen to his excited blabbering. His father had set an end to it when childish talk had turned to serious research over the years – Orzammar was out of reach for surfacers like them, regardless of interest or commitment. Ragnar started resenting his status as a casteless dwarf in his adolescence, robbing him of the potential he would’ve had in dwarven society if House Cadash were still part of the warrior caste like it used to be. It was a pointless grudge, however, and as such it passed.

What stayed with him – most notably now as he is surrounded by the unyielding mountains – is an interest in geology, specifically ores and other kinds of rock. While the group chats about this and that behind him, Ragnar visually searches the slopes around them for loose material he could take with him and work on when they make camp. He doesn‘t tune out the discussion Varric is having with Cassandra - something about stabbing  books, whatever that means –, even if it doesn‘t yield any kind of useful information at the moment.

He should have tracked Solas closer, though. Ragnar had just spotted a frankly _fascinating_ deposit of Obsidian little ways to their left, when the elf decides to speak up from his right. The resulting whiplash makes it difficult for Ragnar to catch whatever the elf says next, his neck protesting the sudden movement with a short, intense pain that makes him wince. He focuses on his companion after a moment, glaring at him when the apostate chuckles at his misery.

“I did not mean to startle you“, Solas amends, still smirking in the aloof way he does everything, as it seems. “I am merely curious. What has you so enraptured, child of stone?“

Ragnar huffs, but can‘t keep quiet for long. He checks in with the other two, still locked in a battle of wits and sharp comebacks, and motions for the elf to follow him. He goes and retrieves the black metal from the ground, dusting it off carefully with his mittened hands.

“This, elf, is called Obsidian, or raven stone. It’s valuable – pretty rare, too.“ He looks up at Solas, surprised to find genuine interest in his lean face. They walk back to the path that leads them slowly out of the mountains, waving with the stone in his hand to Varric, who nods in understanding and resumes walking beside Cassandra.

Ragnar picks up their earlier conversation after a while: “Technically, it’s vulcanic glass, made of molten lava that cooled off too quickly. It’s jagged and uneven because of it, see?“ He offers the stone to the mage, who takes it with delicate fingers and runs his fingertips along the sharp ridges. “It makes a good weapon in a pinch, that’s for sure. Better if you know how to work the material and have some time on your hands, though.“

Solas makes a thoughtful noise, regarding the Obsidian closely. „Is it not bound to break under pressure? It seems so fragile.“ Ragnar shakes his head, pointing to the inner structure of the metal and explaining what makes it so durable.

It‘s the first personal information he shares with the apostate, however trivial it may seem; Solas doesn‘t seem to mind and listens closely, providing questions and input when he deems it appropriate. Soon, the dwarf is talking rather excitedly about the different types of rock he observes along the way and slips into explaining the role of geology for dwarven culture in general. Varric and Cassandra stop sniping each other with pointed remarks and start listening half-way through, content to see their newest addition to the team relaxing to the point of smiling at the elf after another thoughtful comment.

*

Travelling together means not only sharing the road but also the sleeping arrangements at camp. That in itself wouldn’t be a problem for Ragnar – he is used to no more and no less from his former Carta life –, but current developments make it almost impossible for him to rest. Dreams plague every moment he spends asleep, haunting him with green light and vague shapes trying to latch onto him. He decided early on not to show this weakness to his companions – it‘s easily exploitable, most of all for people well versed in Fade magic such as Solas.

As it is, Ragnar volunteers for first watch while they’re setting up camp. The others nod gratefully at him and disappear soon enough into their respective tents; Cassandra shares one with him, while Varric and the elf take the other one. It isn’t his ideal set-up, but the seeker had pointedly argued that the dwarves had to be separated for the already cramped fit to be bearable for _all_ of them (That jab at their height hadn’t been well received, but was true nonetheless).

With a sigh he places himself at the weak campfire, taking out the Obsidian from his pack and starting to work on it quietly with the equipment he brought with him. When he can barely keep his eyes open, he goes to the tent and carefully wakes up Cassandra. She tenses at his gentle touch to her shoulder, but is up and in position within mere moments. Utterly exhausted, Ragnar barely sheds his heavier armor before falling asleep the moment his body hits the bed roll.

 

He shakes himself awake, gasping for breath and feeling claustrophobic in the small space of the tent around him. It takes the dwarf a moment to place his surroundings, to look around for the threat and find that none exists. He presses his palms into his eyes, presses in until he sees stars and the world makes a lick of sense again.

Ragnar just can’t get used to it – the disorientation, the vagueness of dream scape, the downright illogical twists and turns his mind makes him go through in sleep. _Is it my mind or the Mark?_ , he thinks grimly, remembering the same frantic murmurs and blurred silhouettes, coming ever closer to him before he manages to wake himself, to escape. If this is how dreaming is supposed to be, then he doesn’t see the big appeal to it.

He sighs. After tying his hair in a loose braid and fixing his clothes, he grabs the Obsidian and his chisel and heads outside.

 

Cassandra is watching him closely the moment he steps out of the tent. Ragnar makes a point of shaking out the stiffness in his body and cracking the joints in his fingers before he sits down little ways from her in a coordinated slump. He starts working on the stone immediately, shaping it carefully with steady hands. She huffs at that and leaves him to it for a while.

Of course, Cassandra being Cassandra, she doesn’t let it drop completely. “What happened?“, she asks, voice softer than he’s used to from the brash warrior. Ragnar doesn’t answer at first, trying to get the edge of the glass in his hands _just_ right. Then, with a defeated sigh: “I ... can’t sleep. Dreams. Ever since the conclave. The Fade.“

She sits up straighter at that, a tight look on her face. “You’re a dwarf, though“, she states, making him snort and look up from the Obsidian. “I noticed, yeah.“ Cassandra rolls her eyes, leaning forward again with her elbows on her knees. She’s looking him in the eyes when she restates: “You know what I mean. Why now?“ Setting aside the chisel and stone, he copies her posture and looks away, rubbing his hands together to warm them up. She narrows her eyes. “It’s the Mark, isn’t it? A connection to the Fade as Solas suggested?“

“It’s just-“, he stops himself, frowning and looking at his left hand. “What do you dream about, Cassandra?“ A moment passes, then he shakes his head and wipes away the question with a wave of his hand. “Never mind, it’s none of my business. Forget I asked.“

“No, wait“, she insists, not unkindly. „Let’s see... Snippets of Nevarra, the Seeker training. Sometimes I dream about people I have never seen or places I have never been to, or that don’t exist at all.“ She pauses, humming a thoughtful sound. „It’s difficult to remember, in some cases, and difficult to forget in others.“

She doesn‘t prompt him, just waits. He says, tentatively: „It’s shadows and whispers for me, mostly. Nothing concrete, always vague.“ Ragnar rubs at his beard with rough hands, looking thoughtful. „It’s the only thing I remember from the ... vision, or whatever people are calling it these days. That and the woman.“ A moment of pause, then: „I don’t like it. It’s unsettling, unnatural. For me, that is. A dwarf has no place in the Fade, mark or no.“

Cassandra opens her mouth to comment on that, maybe, or offer some advice, when a soft sound makes them both tense. It’s only Solas, though, coming out of the other tent with an indifferent look on his face. _He probably heard_ , Ragnar thinks unhappily and stands up to take his leave back to the tent. He nods at the elf in passing, hesitating in front of the tent flap before turning around. „Cassandra? Thanks. For the talk, I mean.“ His expression is genuine, loose around the eyes in a way that shows he really means it. Cassandra nods, a slight smile on her lips before offering a good spot in front of the fire place to Solas.

Ragnar goes inside and doesn’t know what to do with himself at first. Going back to sleep will be close to impossible, not while he fears the figures might have closed up on him the moment he dreams again. Still – he should at least try to get some rest while he still can.

When he wakes up the next morning, he notices two things: He didn’t dream – or at least doesn’t remember it – and he has an extra set of blankets, the Obsidian and his tools laid out carefully beside his pack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what Ragnar looks like, if anyone's interested!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter to set up some things. Also bonding time with Varric.
> 
> Ragnar's horse is largely based on my own, [you can see his cute face here.](http://kawaiibooker.tumblr.com/post/107253369331/the-other-day-i-took-my-camera-to-the-stables-and)
> 
> Unbetaed.

Soon, the novelty of travel wears off and they grow tired of wandering the endless Hinterlands. The people here are restless at best, desperate at worst – some of them barely scrapping by, caught between the raging templar and mage forces. Ragnar may seem like a battle-hardened warrior on the outside, but inside he feels for those lost individuals more than he lets on. So the dwarf listens to every person who approaches them, taking every task given with a nod and an encouraging smile. His companions stand beside him dutifully during these encounters, surprised at his softheartedness when it took them weeks to even catch a glimpse of his friendly side.

Eventually, though, they devote themselves to the initial quest for Dennet’s horses. The notion of riding on horseback is entirely lost on Ragnar, a fact of which Varric at least is very well aware of. He’s grinning smugly by the time Dennet finally grants the Inquisition his mounts, pressing the reins of a dark brown gelding into Ragnar’s hand. “Take special care of this one for me, will ya?”, the gruff horse master says, patting the horse on the neck. “Name’s Dasher. He’ll take you anywhere you need to go – as long as he respects you, that is.”

Ragnar snorts at the name, sharing the joke with Varric who just lifts an eyebrow in amusement. The animal towers over him easily, showing him with flattened ears and tensed nostrils that that respect has yet to be earned. “I’ll do my best.” The dwarf nods in parting, mounting Dasher with some difficulty. The horse seems disgruntled, but obeys readily when he presses his heels into his sides.

The group sets off, riding at a leisurely pace out of the mountains surrounding Dennet’s farm. Ragnar lets Cassandra take the lead, since he’s busy enough trying to stay on the damned horse. He’s shifting around, trying to find a better position than the uncomfortable spread-legged one he’s currently in, when Varric rides up to his side.

“So. Dasher, huh?” He reaches out to ruffle the horses’ mane, only to withdraw his hand when he receives a moody snap for his efforts. Varric chuckles at that, shaking his head fondly. “Quite fitting, if you ask me.”

Ragnar looks at him with a deadpan expression, then breaks into a smirk. “Yeah, my father would be _thrilled_.” He swipes the braid on the left side of his head behind his ear, scratching at his beard pensively. “What would he think, seeing me now? All fancied up on some Andrastrian mission to save Thedas, riding a horse that carries his name.”

“Well, that depends.” Varric has a sharp look in his eyes, his perpetual smile falling from his lips. “Are we assuming he would accept you stepping out of his shadow? No offense, but that’s pretty unrealistic, even by your standards.”

Ragnar frowns, throwing a glance at his friend. “You’re probably right.” Then, in a lighter tone: “My standards are perfectly fine, thank you.”

“If you say so, kiddo.” The smile is back in place.

They ride a few minutes alongside each other, sharing the silence easily. Suddenly, Varric sits up, starting to search through his pack eagerly. Ragnar tilts his head with a questioning glance, trying to see what the fuss is about, when the other dwarf frees a large red-colored stone fragment from the bundle of quilts, ink bottles and parchment, amongst other things. “I almost forgot to give you this”, he says with a huff.

Trying not to look like an over-excited child, Ragnar sits tight in his saddle, his eyes following the movement of the Drakestone in Varric’s hands. He is handed the stone soon enough with a warm smile. “Found it in one of those caves some days ago. Thought I’d take it with me, since you were so busy playing the hero.”

Saying his thanks distractedly, Ragnar traces the sharp edges of the metal with careful fingers after placing Dasher’s reins on the horses’ neck, the discomfort of riding on horseback all but forgotten. It has a translucent quality to it, the core a deep red. “The color is unusual... Looks almost like the corrupted Lyrium we saw at the Temple”, he murmurs, mostly to himself.

Varric hums, having noticed it himself. “The Drakestone at the Bone Pit back in Kirkwall had a more of a yellow-ish quality to it. Blondie wanted it for–“, a pause, then he sighs. “Never mind.”

Holding it against the sun, Ragnar inspects the pureness of the metal. He willingly ignores the comment about Anders, knowing it to be a sore spot. “The Bone Pit used to be a dragon lair, right? It was probably laced with sulfur, hence the yellow. The caves we found were tinted red from the Lyrium... Does this mean Drakestone adapts to its surroundings? Or is it, too, corrupted?” He muses idly on that for a while, turning the stone this way and that, polishing it provisionally with his mittens.

The sun is setting by the time he snaps out of it, looking around sheepishly for his companions. “Come _on_ , Ragnar, you can lovingly gaze at that stone of yours from over here!” he hears Varric call out to him from little ways up the road, where the crew has started setting up camp. Ragnar feels his bearded cheeks color at that, willing Dasher into a slow trot to catch up to the camp.

*

Ragnar is exhausted. It’s the third meeting in the war room he has attended on the matter of the Inquisitions future alliances in barely a week, and as much as the Inner Circle has proven the ability to work together, in this matter the opinions are split down the middle.

The dwarf himself had been indifferent to any of the two groups before the Conclave – going by his previous dealings with them, both mages and templars needed Lyrium and thus the Carta made money out of it, end of story. Now, though, the choice between them could mean their salvation – or their ruin. Although he strongly favors the mage forces – how can he not, given their struggle for freedom he very much relates to – he is unsure if a rag tag group of apostates would be strong enough to help close the Breach, given their small numbers.

After the war room sessions, he speaks till the morning hours with his other companions, trying to reflect the situation from their angle. Though the points of view couldn’t be further apart, it helps ground him more than any rest could, as his nightmares flare up in intensity, paralleling his anxiety over the near future with terrors painted in green light. Most nights, he ends up napping by Varric’s spot in front of the fire place, counting on his friend to wake him when the dream inevitably returns.

By the fourth war council, though, his patience is at an end. Cullen, Cassandra and Josephine are fighting heatedly over the implications of choosing their preferred sides when Leliana steps out shortly, speaking to one of her spies in hushed voices. Ragnar looks at the map spread on the table one last time, figures and sharp flags pinpointing important locations, past and present operations–

Then bangs his fist on the wooden surface with enough force to shake the sturdy furniture. It has the desired effect: Josephine makes a startled noise of surprise mid-sentence, while Cassandra and Cullen have their hands on their swords in an instant. Cullen sizes him up with a squinted glare before relaxing his tensed stance. Only Leliana seems unaffected, coming back into the room and looking at him under her hood with a calculating stare. Absolute silence follows.

“This”, Ragnar makes a sweeping gesture to the whole room, “is getting us nowhere. The Breach is our problem, the Inquisition is here to solve it, so let’s get on with the program, shall we?” His voice is calm, despite the violent way he caught their attention initially. “I may not be an expert on magic, but what I _do_ know is that the Breach originated from a magic source. Possibly ancient magic, that is, if we may believe our resident elven mage. Which means that _this_ ”, he waves around with his left hand, willingly activating the Mark despite the twinge of pain it sends through his body, “being the only remnant of that type of magic available to us, has to be powered up considerably to clean up whoever’s mess this is.”

“ _Or_ ”, Cullen cuts in, looking fierce in the green glow of the Mark, “we can use the templars to weaken–“

“No offense, Commander, but I’d rather take the chances with the thing we can actually access.” Ragnar interrupts him smoothly, taking the former templar’s glare in stride. “It works on smaller rifts just fine, ask anyone. The mages may be unorganized, but give them a banner they can serve for _willingly_ and they might just do the trick.”

“Admittedly, after the events at Val Royeaux, both sides are equally disfavored by the Orlesian public. Might as well go for the mages, then”, Josephine supplies, her expression tense but determined to make it work.

"The roads to Redcliff are clear, my scouts made sure of that”, Leliana says, nodding her head at her positioned forces on the map.

Ragnar looks each of the advisors in the eyes, then nods slowly. “That’s how we’ll do it, then. We set off in the morning.” _Great Ancestors, may this be the right decision_ , he adds in his mind, unwilling to show his own doubts. Before he walks out of the room, he senses something being slipped into his pouch soundlessly. Ragnar looks up and meets Leliana’s dark gaze, frowning but trusting her judgement. He turns his back on the advisors, feeling the weight of the world settling heavier on his broad shoulders.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a lot of things I establish in this fic about Carta/dwarven culture are personal headcanons. Lantos' letter is canon, though: I took it from the war room operation ["The Carta gets its Cut"](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/The_Carta_Gets_Its_Cut). On the same note: The [quest in Valammar](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Valammar) doesn't happen at all in this story, since a) it just doesn't make sense for Cadash to eradicate a branch of his (ex-)organisation in cold blood imho and b) I'll deal with it in a seperate fic at some point. 
> 
> I snatched one or two lines from canon dialogue, though I tried to avoid it as much as possible. Woops?
> 
> Unbetaed.

The ride to Redcliffe seems endless and too short at the same time. They pass through the Hinterlands without a hitch – having dealt with both the rogue templar and mage forces on their prior visit –, seeing their progress to stabilize the region first-hand.

This is entirely lost on Ragnar, though. He is deep in thought, feeling the letter Leliana gave him weigh on his mind. He reads it the moment they left Haven, curiosity getting the best of him. It says:

_Kallak,_

_Sorry about that lyrium deal at the Conclave going sideways. When I said I expected the talks to blow up, that... wasn’t what I meant. At least you made it out of there in one piece. You always did have strange luck._

_I’m not saying where I am now. Let’s call it ‘somewhere safe enough’ and leave the prying eyes guessing. The Dasher’s looking for you – well, for both of us, but mostly you – angry as a drunk bronto. He thinks you ran off with his lyrium, salroka. And now you’re hiding from the Carta behind a wall of Inquisition muscle. I’d be careful if I were you._

_Lantos_

Whilst Ragnar feels a rush of nostalgia at his old nickname – he went by a nickname,"Kallak", the moment he started pulling his own weight at the Carta, like most Carta-dwarves – the implications of the letter bother him greatly. Why his father thinks he would do something as brash and downright _stupid_ as stealing lyrium from his own family is beyond him, though he has quietly wondered why the Carta didn’t try to contact him since the Conclave. Now he has his answer: _They think me a deserter._

He didn’t mean to “hide” behind the Inquisition, exactly. _You can’t hide from something you didn’t know was coming_ , he muses, playing with the braid that marked him a member of the Carta unconsciously. And not only that: Dasher is after Lantos as well. As his friend put it: A “wall of Inquisition muscle” may be protecting Ragnar from his father’s wrath, but that doesn’t extend to others associated with him. _Not that there are many “associates” left after the explosion_ , he thinks grimly.

He understands why Leliana gave him the letter in secret. The Herald’s connection to the Carta, severed or not, isn’t something the advisors like to address directly, though it would be expected of him to deal with it through the official channels should it become a hindrance. This way, he is left the choice how to handle the situation as Ragnar Cadash, not the Herald of Andraste.

That only leaves the problem of actually finding out what he wants, though.

*

They are riding through the re-opened gates of Redcliffe when the decision is taken out of his hands. “Cadash, watch out!” Cassandra shouts a warning, but it’s too late: Ragnar feels a short pain at his left temple, the whistling of an arrow ringing in his ears. He ducks reflexively over Dasher’s neck, spotting the archer poised on the wall short ways to their left. Out of the corner of his vision, he sees Varric readying Bianca with a murderous look on his face; a sword is drawn to his right and the atmosphere shifts around Solas’ magic with the taste of ice in the air behind him.

“Stop!” Ragnar commands, his voice steady. His eyes haven’t left the archer, who straps the bow to his back with a nod and vanishes a moment later. Only then does the dwarf check his head for the injury with careful fingers, frowning at the blood he feels slowly trickling down his neck. More importantly though is the removed braid, cut off cleanly an inch over his ear.

With a huff he dismounts, spotting the arrow stuck to the ground a few steps away. Ragnar retrieves the message he knows will be bound to it, bypassing the severed braid on the floor, before he pulls himself into the saddle once more. Only then does he acknowledge his companions, who look various degrees of alarmed – with the exception of Solas, the elf’s expression carefully indifferent as always.

“Carta’s way of kicking out people”, Ragnar says gruffly, showing the missing patch of hair with a tilt of his head. “If they don’t kill you first, of course.” He sighs, motioning for his horse to resume walking. The team follows suit.

“ _Andraste’s tits_ , couldn’t they just have sent a letter?” Varric grumbles, returning Bianca to her place on his back. Cassandra just makes her infamous disgusted noise, aimed for once at others than the dwarven archer.

“Oh, but they did – see?” Ragnar waves with the piece of parchment attached to the arrow, before scanning over it quickly. It isn’t a very long message:

_Don’t bother returning. – D_

He rolls his eyes at that, slipping the note into his pouch beside Lantos’ letter. _Father always had a way with words._ He ignores his clenching heart, instead picking up his reins tighter and straightening his back, head held high.

“Come on, let’s get this mage business over with.”

*

 _I fucking hate magic_ is the first thought in Ragnar’s mind when he regains consciousness, feeling all kinds of dizzy and disoriented. Sitting up proves to be a challenge when the world insists on tilting and turning around him. He closes his eyes tightly with a groan.

“Ah, you’re awake!” comes a cheerful voice from his right, accompanied by the splashing sounds of steps in water.

“Not for long if I have any say in it”, Ragnar replies darkly, flinching slightly at the hand offered in front of him. The dwarf looks up at Dorian Pavus, frowning at the perpetually teasing expression the Tevinter carries on his handsome face but accepting the help anyways. He intends to step away the moment he’s standing, avoiding bodily contact as much as possible as he usually does, but a wave of nausea makes him grab Dorian’s arm in an effort to stay upright instead.

“Fainting, are we? Not an uncommon reaction to my looks, I assure you”, the mage quips, keeping his voice down in sympathy nonetheless. Ragnar snorts at that, rubbing his pulsing temple with his free hand. He feels badly hungover, to the point where it’s difficult to keep the contents of his stomach where they belong – a feeling he’s starting to associate with the infliction of magic, be it from his Mark or other sources.

The dwarf releases the tight grip on the other man, looking around for his trusted greataxe with slow movements. Dorian fixes his robes automatically. “So, how fucked is the situation? Big magic thing gone wrong, I presume?” He spots the axe, reaching for it through the murky water they are currently standing in with a grimace.

The Tevinter chuckles mirthlessly, readying his own weapon, a wooden staff of some kind. “Should it concern me that you sound so used to ‘big magic things’ going awry?” He sobers up considerably. “In short: Yes. Alexius wanted you gone and casted a time spell, I selflessly deflected it and”, he makes grand gesture to the dark prison-like room around them, “here we are. Though the question is more _when_ we are.”

Ragnar stills for a moment, closing his eyes and taking a big breath before letting it out slowly. “Time spell accident, possibly displaced in time and location.” He rights his armor, giving up on his overall appearance after a moment with a sigh.

“Alright, let’s get out of here.”

They set off to explore the cavern-like structure, dispatching of any guards that come their way. The lyrium-infested walls seem to loom ever closer with bloody fangs, some pathways completely crushed under the weight. While Dorian stops here and there to inspect the crystals, brushing his moustache with an intrigued look on his face, Ragnar can’t suppress the memories of the destruction at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Corrupted lyrium had spread there as well – not like the intricate veins his people is so fond of, but breaking the rock like a festering wound.

He can hear it singing to him now, beckoning for his touch. The dwarf shakes his head to get rid of it, gritting his teeth against the responding pounding in his left hand. _It’s getting worse_ , he realizes after a while: The Mark has surpassed the discomfort he’s gotten used to, instead settling on an _ache_ he’s incapable of tuning out. Ragnar decides to take a look at it – later. Maybe Solas could–

Suddenly, somebody hums tunelessly, the sound creating a weak echo on the bare walls around them. Ragnar feels his pulse pick up, recognizing that voice anywhere – _Varric!_ The Mark forgotten, he hurries to the source, bashing the door in without hesitation. Ragnar barely hears the surprised “Venhedis!” from the mage running after him.

*

The more they uncover of the year they have missed, the more it turns into Ragnar’s worst nightmare. Not only did he fail to protect the ones closest to him – _again_ – but his presumed death took all hope for a life after the Breach for all of Thedas. Never before has he seen the importance of the Herald of Andraste in this world-encompassing catastrophe as clearly; the faith they put in him – not the person, but the symbolic figure of a religion he isn’t, or _wasn’t_ , part of – seemed ludicrous before, but in this future where it was all but extinguished by Alexius spell its existence is all the more crucial. Ragnar can see it rekindle in the eyes of the ones he frees from Redcliffe's keep - his _friends_ twisted almost beyond recognition by lyrium poisoning and a year of torture - and he holds onto it like the most precious gem.

That it may be able to be undone is only a small mercy in his mind, blocked out by the need to protect, to shield the people around him from further harm as they fight through fade rift after fade rift. It proves to be futile, in the end; one after the other offer to sacrifice their lives for the chance to make it right again, all bared teeth and grim-faced determination. Ragnar’s knee-jerk reaction is to stop them – _I can’t, won’t ask you to die for me_ –, the comfort that they will _live_ if they succeed a distant one. He tightens his lips and nods instead, looking each of his companions in the eyes as he sends them to their death.

*

Being back at Haven after that - the Breach in the sky and the Inquisition forces bustling around him, unchanged - is unbearable. Ragnar carries the experience of the future that never was like a bleeding wound in his heart, barely talking about what he saw and did besides the required amount to plan their next move. The advisors council for hours on end and, if he’s not in the war room with them, he’s preparing restlessly for the things to come, recruiting agents of all races and securing resources for the Inquisition throughout Ferelden. He even manages to establish an extra supply line of uncorrupted lyrium from old contacts, mostly Carta deserters and a few trusted friends in the right places. It’s a fickle business and they have to work around strictly hands-off Carta territory, but they make it work. Ragnar isn’t the son of the Dasher for nothing, after all.

It’s only a few days after their arrival from Redcliffe when Dorian makes his entrance, all confident smiles and sweeping gestures. The relief Ragnar feels when the mage confirms his continued stay seems disproportionate to the time they have known each other, in this timeline at least. When Ragnar locks eyes with him, he can see his own discomfort mirrored there, the _unawareness_ of the ones around them to the horrors that may still happen unsettling at best. It’s that shared experience that creates a strong bond between them.

Ragnar smiles softly at Dorian, tilting his head pensively. “There’s no one I’d rather be stuck in time with, future or present", he says and means every word of it.

*

Haven fills with all kinds of people following the alliance with the mages, reaching worrying levels of provision needed to support it.

There are, of course, the apostates under Fiona’s command, regarded by the few resident templars with hooded eyes and an unhappy twist to their mouths. Ragnar insists their newest additions should be able to move unguarded, granting them something akin to the freedom they crave. Many – among them Cullen – interpret it more as the benefit of the doubt, waiting wearily for the mages to snap.

Then there are the pilgrims, most of them Andrastrians, arriving in irregular clusters from pairs to whole clans. Some wandered across half Thedas for the chance to join the rumored Inquisition, bodies lean from the trials they have faced. Ragnar used to resent the way their gazes followed him, with that almost feverish hope blooming in their eyes. Now, with the memory of those same eyes darkened by hopelessness fresh in his mind, it’s difficult to turn his back on them as he did before.

Thus Ragnar tries to be the Herald they need, listening to them and offering advice where he deems it fit between his travels and other duties, even if there’s not much he can actually help with. If the Inner Circle notices his change of heart, they don’t comment, instead supporting him with small gestures: Leliana leaves books about Chantry history and Andrastrian faith on his bedside table with comments scribbled between the lines; Josephine teaches him the subtleties of the hierarchy within the Chantry and its politics, refining his speech to be as diplomatic as possible; and Cullen offers to spar with him, attracting a fairly big crowd rooting for one or the other enthusiastically. Ragnar receives encouraging pats on his back and shoulders by unfamiliar hands every time a round ends, getting to know most of Cullen’s soldiers by name at the end of the day as they get to know him beyond his daunting title. It’s a start, at least, and Ragnar hopes that it will be enough.

*

It’s the time he spends with Cassandra and Varric that helps him the most, though, be it on the road or in Haven. Out of all members of the Inquisition, it’s them who know him best. They make themselves comfortable in the tavern by a few rounds of ale and some hearty food one night, the bard singing softly by the fireplace filling the short silences they spend in deep thought. Whilst the subject of religion was, before, best untouched due to Ragnar’s frustration with the whole Herald business, it’s one he now actively pursues. It’s a strangely civil meeting for the dwarven archer and the seeker, both well known for their constant bickering. As it turns out, their one common thread are the matters of faith – the ale helps, too.

At one point, Varric chuckles at Ragnar's clumsy comparisons of dwarven mythology and Andrastrianism, stating: “You’re just such a _dwarf_ , Ragnar. Where did you even learn all that stuff?”

“Hard work and dedication, salroka, you should try it someday” the other dwarf quips back easily, a smug grin on his face. Cassandra laughs sounding slightly tipsy and raises her glass to that. “Hear, hear!”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it off”, Varric grumbles good-naturedly, drinking the last of his ale.

*

Eventually, Ragnar adapts to the stronger symptoms of the Mark that resulted from Alexius’ time rifts. Between being the Herald, the recruitments and his travels he dismisses it gradually, then forgets about getting it checked altogether. There are more pressing matters, after all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed quite a lot of chapter 4, so I just went ahead and re-uploaded it completely.
> 
> Work on this story is going to be ultra slow due to uni, sorry for that.
> 
> Unbetaed.

“Can’t sleep?”

Dorian’s soft voice pulls Ragnar from his thoughts. He blinks as if waking from deep slumber, drawing his gaze from the snowy planes in front of him.

He sits on the wooden pier at Haven’s frozen lake, huddled in large blankets and furs that barely manage to keep him warm – for how long he can’t recall. After a moment, the dwarf pats the spot beside himself, opening the cocoon of warmth to share it with the mage. The question remains unanswered.

Dorian seems hesitant at first but complies eventually, joining him with a huff that sounds suspiciously like a complaint about “the damnable Ferelden cold”. He settles after a while. Time passes in silence, both staring out into the night, breaths puffing out and dissipating only moments later like mist.

“Will it be enough?” Ragnar wonders aloud. It is all he has been able to think about. The Breach sprawls into the darkness above them like a living thing.

_Will I be enough?_

Dorian hums in thought. They’re close enough that Ragnar can see the reflection of the earie green light in his eyes when they make eye contact. “I’m fairly certain you don’t want to hear my musings about the likelihood of success in this... _endeavor_ of ours”, he says, the quirk to his lips unusually somber.  “You know as well as I do that it cannot be foreseen, no matter the genius invested to predict it.”

Ragnar sighs. “Ah, it was worth a shot.”

The mage chuckles at his deadpan voice, giving him a small push with his shoulder. “My, my, is the grand Herald going to give up so soon? All those stories I heard about the fearless dwarf – it seems I have been misled!”

Ragnar smiles despite himself, amiably shoving the mage back. “Nobody said anything about giving up yet, Pavus. Who would save your pretty hide from that overgrown rift if not me?”

“Pretty, huh?” He winks at the dwarf, who just shakes his head in disbelief and says: “It’s good to know you always focus on the important things.”

“Well, you know me, dear Herald.”

The dwarf tries to hide his wince at the title, but Dorian picks up on it with narrowed eyes regardless. “Don’t– Can I be just Ragnar, for now?” It’s only a whisper, but the proximity makes up for it. “It’s only you and me out here, after all.”

“My apologies – I had assumed you made your peace with this whole being-a-religious-figure business. May I ask why you indulge the pilgrims that much, then?”

 _Because they – the pilgrims, the advisors, the mages – expect me to,_ Ragnar wants to answer, but that is not all of it. The lyrium-infested walls of Redcliffe’s keep come unbidden to mind, red-tinted eyes looking at him without hope.

“That future we saw... The one we helped create through our absence... It can’t be allowed to happen, Dorian. It cannot.” He swallows thickly, fighting to maintain a neutral face, to keep the memories at bay. “If all it takes is to play my role, then by the Ancestors I will give it my best shot.”

“And what if it takes more than that?” It’s a question the mage seems reluctant to express. The words, once stated, settle heavily between them. _What if, indeed?_

The heartache he pushed aside since returning to Haven strikes back in vengeance. _The only way we’ll live is if this day never comes_ , he hears Leliana say. “I won’t see them die... not again–“ His voice breaks on the last word. Ragnar lapses into silence, his composure cracking under the weight of possible failure.

“Hey now. Just you and me, right?” Dorian is a steady presence at his side, giving him time to piece himself together again by supplying a constant stream of innocuous stories; telling him how he managed to offend members of royalty or recounting dull parties he had to attend to.

Thus, the mage slowly dispels the gloom that previously resided over him. They keep talking about trivial matters – hours passing unnoticed, only documented through increasingly frequent yawns and shifts of position.

“Can’t remember the last time I saw the sun rise – by choice”, Dorian comments eventually, alerting Ragnar to the fact that he nodded off somewhere in between – he dimly remembers a childhood story about... a scandalous boating accident?, but the details elude him. He manages to grunt noncommittally, stretching his protesting back and limbs before he slumps back into the blankets with a huff.

“I freeze my bullocks off to keep you company and tha– that’s how you thank me?” his companion says in a dismay, yawning partway through the sentence. Ragnar just shrugs, too drowsy to make an attempt at coherent language just yet.

Ignoring Dorian’s half-hearted grumbling, the dwarf stands slowly, helping the taller human to his feet a moment after. They make their way to their respective cabins on numbed legs, slowing to an uncertain halt before they have to part. A few of Haven’s townfolk is getting an early start on their day, although no one pays much attention to the mismatched pair yet.

“The dreams were... bad, today. Or yesterday, I suppose”, Ragnar breaks the silence between them, scratching at his nape whilst watching the grocers set up shop. He takes a deep breath. “Thanks to you, I still managed to catch some sleep.”

“I have to admit, finding a boring enough story was a challenge, considering my fascinating life. At least those boating trips with my mother proved to be _some_ good, after all.” They laugh quietly at that, feeling at ease after the night they spent in each other’s company.

Ragnar hefts the rolled up blankets up higher, taking his leave with some reluctance. “It’s going to work, Ragnar”, Dorian calls after him, making him turn around once more. “We’ve worked hard for it.”

He nods in response, needing the affirmation as much for Dorian as for himself.

“It has to.”

*

The way to the destroyed Temple of Sacred Ashes is once again not a joyful one, every step feeling heavier and heavier while the Mark pounds away to its own beat in Ragnar’s flesh. It almost feels like it yearns to be reunited with a magical source far greater than any of the rifts its bearer has encountered before.

Fear claws its roots deep into his chest, constricting his lungs and stabbing his heart in painful bursts. _The ancestors must really love the irony_ , he can’t help but think miserably at the sight looming before him, keeping his back straight and shoulders squared nonetheless. On the outside, he carries a calm face, his unhealthy pallor hidden by the ghostly shine of the Breach in the night sky.

He tries not to flinch when, with a flash of pain, the magic in his left hand awakens for all to see, its glow a beacon for the cautious hope and anticipation his followers display in a shared expression of excitement. The prospect of finally finishing the task they set out to do in one glorious display of power is omnipresent, mages and non-mages taking position side by side with their differences forgotten for the moment.

The Inner Circle, in turn, hides grim faces behind broad backs, moving as a united force in front of their troops. Their usual banter is all but suffocated by the sheer pressure weighing on their shoulders; their concern for the Herald in their midst palpable in the shared looks, doubts and what-ifs spoken and discarded just a few short hours ago in the war room now more crushing than ever.

All of that is condensed in the tight nod Ragnar addresses them with, turning his back to the Breach for barely a moment. _This is it_ , he says without words. _This will show if we played our cards right._

He looks his companions in the eyes – the ones he started the Inquisition, fought demons and closed rift after rift with, but also newly-acquired allies he hardly had time to get to know before agreeing to the possibly-fatal task ahead of them now. Oddly enough, the last one he sets his eyes on is Dorian, who tilts his head and gives him his trademark smirk, teasing and cocky as ever. _Go on then – save the world!_ he can hear him say cheerfully in his mind and it gives him the strength to face the Breach once more.

“Focus past the Herald!” Solas instructs the mages with natural authority, the following commands lost to the rush in Ragnar’s ears as he wills his trembling legs towards the thing he most fears.

 _This is it_ , he thinks – and breaks the tight control over the Mark’s power, magic flooding his body until he can barely feel anything else. If the previous connection felt painful, the sensation this time is heightened to agony by the sheer amount of _power_ crashing through him. He loses all concept of time, suspended endlessly in the connection to the Breach.

When it ends, he finds himself doubled over on the ground, throat raw and the left side of his body numb. He stays like that for an indefinitely long moment. Nothing seems _real_ to him, a feeling so similar to the one in the Fade that he sees blurred silhouettes coming ever closer. They grip him by his arm, pulling him to his feet with surprising strength and a gentleness he doesn’t expect.

It’s a less gentle slap to the face that startles him from that daze, Cassandra’s familiar frown filling his vision. “Maker – Ragnar, _can you hear me_?”

The dwarf in her grasp blinks, sound returning to him in a surge of cheers and applause from the Inquisition forces around them. “Cass, what–“ _happened?_ , he wants to ask, but is interrupted by Varric bear-hugging the air out of his lungs with a joyous “Whoop!”and a rich laugh.

“Look at him _go_! Our dear Herald, saving our asses and managing _not to die_ in the process!” He ruffles Ragnar’s hair affectionately, his broad smile reflected by the rest of the group gathering loosely around the epicenter of the now-sealed Breach. Relief is a pleasant buzz in the air, the gloom of just a few minutes ago wiped away by their success. “Nobody’s gonna believe me – again!”

“How are you faring?” It’s Solas, surprisingly, who shows concern for him then, looking him over swiftly.

“I think I can’t feel my legs”, Ragnar admits sheepishly, his voice hoarse but his eyes glinting with his usual snark. The Iron Bull, the last to join the Inquisition with his Chargers, lifts his scarred eyebrow suggestively. “That good, huh?” Everyone chuckles at that – some more freely than others –, sharing a rare moment of peace before getting the troops moving back to Haven.

They kindly ignore the way Ragnar is leaning heavily on Cassandra on their way home, the warrior carrying the added weight gracefully and without further comment.

*

“Get out of here!” Ragnar commands his team before tainted dragon fire forces them apart. It’s the last time he will see his friends’ faces in a long while, his vision swallowed by flames singeing his skin through the light armor he’s wearing. None of them had really been ready for an attack of this scale, despite Cullen’s careful preparations.

The dwarf almost wishes back the burning heat when he’s treading through the biting cold of the Frostbacks, snow and ice slowing him considerably. He throws off all metal components of his armor to reduce weight and retain body heat early on, only keeping his beloved axe in his numbing fingers barely protected by his mittens. The thought of hiding the discarded equipment crosses his mind – _How long till Corypheus’ scouts start searching the area to find me?_ – but he dismisses it. _The cold will get me before any of them can, anyways._

It’s not his frozen and hurting body, but the utter loneliness of the mountain’s desolation that pains him most, wrapping his mind in despair so tight he can barely think. Ragnar has been surrounded by people all his life – by his family and his crew, then the Inquisition – and he aches for the presence of another person, similar to the phantom pain of a missing limb.

Still he marches on. A tugging in his gut shows him the right way between the towering peaks of the mountains, granting him enough strength to pick himself up when he is close to giving in to the exhaustion. He imagines it is the guiding hand of the Stone, watching over him like all of Her children.

It’s that belief he clings to, drawing comfort from the instinctive familiarity it brings, half-remembered stories his mother used to tell him about lost dwarflings finding their way back home in endless tunnels but a fleeting thought in his delirious state. ~~  
~~

An indeterminable amount of time later, the dwarf finally collapses to his knees at the top of a snow-covered hill. The warm flicker of lights he is certain are only hallucinations blur in front of his eyes while the sounds of frantic steps in deep snow and loud voices register only dimly in his mind. His instinct to get on his feet and _fight_ is instantly smothered by the darkness closing in on him.

“Oh thank the Maker, it’s the Herald–“ is the last thing he hears, then he falls senseless, unknowing to the strong arms catching him.

*

The taste of winter on his tongue and the dead, dark desolation surrounding him is all he knows.

“My name is Ragnar of house Cadash, son to Karshol Cadash.”

Time has no meaning here – it cannot be measured, for nothing has changed. _Why should there be change?_ All movement ceases without orientation, eventually, a fact he learned once and hasn’t tested since. The thought is fleeting, however, whisked away by the winter wind a moment later. 

“Closing the Breach is my cause.”

Even his senses have dulled, finding no stimulation whether extrinsic nor intrinsic in nature. His voice is all he has now, the only thing keeping him tethered to himself, lest he be swallowed by this endlessly bright void, too.

“My name is...” His constant mantra echoes back to him. In the end, it’s barely more than the rippling effect of a drop in a body of water: temporary movement that stills as it distances itself from its center.

Eventually, he settles into the familiar silence of it.

*

His lazily blinking eyes spot the changes too late, unused to the sensation of _seeing_. In the utterly blank white around him shadows have appeared, no more than smudges at first but coming ever closer.

 _Finally._ He recognizes with mild surprise that he has been expecting them. Discomfort arises at a glacial pace, the need to _move_ one foreign to him after his long wait – but it’s too late, his atrophied instincts barely responding when the shadows descend upon him.

 _No!_ Color bursts into existence around him, wrapping him in layers and layers of green light that feel wonderfully soft and warm in contrast to the terrible numbness he has known for so long. The shadows – so close and still blurred – glide away effortlessly, circling the cocoon of light like predators patiently circling their pray.

He hears his name echoing in the presence around him. _Ah, there you are!_ He remembers now – there had been a void entirely different and yet so similar to this one, threatening to swallow him if not for a voice–

Here, it pulses with wavering strength, urging him to _stay still_. The warmth swells to a smoldering heat, green filling his vision till he knows no more.

*

Ragnar wakes from dreams of endless icy wastes to heated whispers, feeling a vague chill in his body. He burrows deeper into the warm blanket around him, keeping his eyes closed lazily.

“Explain, _Solas_ , or I swear to Andraste I will–“ Cassandra’s violent threat is cut off by something he can’t see, but the worry behind it is obvious. _I wonder what caused her to mother hen this badly_ , he thinks idly, noticing that his mittens are missing a moment later. He wiggles his fingers under the blanket, unused to their naked state, but a twinge of pain coursing through his left arm stops him instantly. _Huh, that’s new._

“I cannot.” Solas sounds unusually terse in the flat tone he uses when he doesn’t understand something to the full extent. “Of course, I could have done something earlier if he had just _told me_ about the symptoms.” _I wanted to show him something, didn’t I?_ With a furrow of his brow Ragnar decides to stay put, understanding dawning on him slowly.

“I can’t _believe_ none of us noticed it before”, Varric’s baritone voice chimed in, at least making an effort to speak softly but clearly sounding agitated. “I mean, he basically waved it right in our faces every time there was a rift to seal. That thing – what if it gets _worse_ every time he activates it?”

There’s a short silence. Ragnar consciously feigns sleep now, keeping his breaths regular but calm enough to be able to listen. The burning questions of where he is and how he got here can wait a little longer. _Did something happen to the Mark while I slept?_

“In any matter, it is irreversible for now.” Solas again. “It is not spreading, at least not at the pace it had shortly after the Conclave – a small mercy, I’m sure.” A faint sigh, then he quiets down again.

“Maybe the Herald will know more once he wakes up.” Cassandra’s heavy steps come closer to him. Another blanket is tucked around the dwarf a moment later with deft hands, a gesture that contrasts the steely quality to her voice. Ragnar tries not to tense up and give himself away; pretending to be slightly disturbed in his sleep, he then relaxes back into the covers with a sigh. “He was the last to flee Haven and his wounds point to a fight of some kind, after all.” The warrior sounds softer now, checking his brow and neck for signs of fever with barely a touch before retreating again.

 _I’m hurt?_ Ragnar asks himself drowsily. That surprises him, as he feels no immediate discomfort beside the weird sting from before. _They probably gave me the good stuff..._

Eventually, the notion that his companions are with him once again and the comfortable warmth of the bed lure him back to sleep. He can’t think of a reason why he shouldn’t give in – the conversation is over, several pairs of feet shuffling out of hearing distance, and the answers to his questions can wait.

Only one person stays behind, a chair creaking under the weight of them sitting down. It’s with the distinct smell of sword oil in his nose that he falls asleep, knowing Cassandra is watching his back.


End file.
